Karl Rove is a political genius, no doubt, but I’m confused by the strategy he seems to have adopted: relentless third party whining on behalf of Young Master Smirk.
As they say at cocktail parties in Cambridge, Mass., it lacks coherence. On the one hand, how can you dress up a dummy in a flight suit to masquerade as Captain America and on the other hand, complain that a bunch of Democrat pretty boys are (awww) picking on him?
The Nascar Dads are supposedly the bedrock of Republican campaign strategy – the blue collar or white collar 9-to-fiver who picks up a set of power tools at the end of the day to build his wife a new master bedroom.
I know plenty of people like this – after all, this is Cape Cod. They do tend to be clubby and clannish, and most are followers of whoever seems to be the current lead dog. These are NOT alpha males per se, but many are great employees, loyal to their company and to their boss.
Some are veterans, or have years of service as reservists. The best ones are strongly protective of women, responsible members of the community and deeply contemptous of anyone who would hurt a child.
So why does a good family man who looks forward to bringing his kids fishing on Saturday morning and watching football on Sunday afternoon possibly find appealling in George Bush or his administration?
Does Karl Rove really believe that people like my friends and neighbors don’t understand and don’t care about the loss of life in Iraq and Afghanistan, the deficit looming over our kids and grandkids, the pathetic fiction of “No Child Left Behind”, the latest Medicare boondoggle to the pharmaceutical industry, the dishonorable, corrupt Dick Cheney and his war profiteering buddies?
I hope Karl Rove is wrong, and I hope that every American sees through his pathetic ploy to gain sympathy for the supposedly beleagured Chief Executive.
It seems to me that the Leader of the Free World and his boys should have tougher skins, thank you very much.
In other words, if you can’t stand the heat, you pathetic, phoney, silver spoon Momma’s boy, get the hell out of the kitchen.